


the old grip of the familiar

by AccursedSpatula



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Ardyn backstory, Doppelganger, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Gore, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Character Death, Pining, Prophecy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 04:39:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13426983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AccursedSpatula/pseuds/AccursedSpatula
Summary: Ardyn came to a stop, speech ready on his tongue, attentions flitting back through Noctis and his companions, and then the Shield─Gladiolus, that was his name, wasn’t it?─turned and looked at him, and all of his words, all of his thoughts evaporated, the voices in his head falling silent for just a moment.He knew that face. From a place not here and a time long past, he knew that face. The hair was different, the skin a little paler, the beard shorter, but the features were there, all identical.He hadn’t thought about any of it in years, centuries, really, yet here it was, alive, staring back at him, real and tangible as ever.Ardyn's terrible with names, but he never forgets a face.





	the old grip of the familiar

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd.
> 
> [agnes obel.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=32kYH6XZrIo)

Most of Ardyn’s past lay buried where it fell.

He had always supposed that the limit on human memory should expire around a lifetime, and at present he was more than twenty times past that; no wonder great chunks of his own had gone fuzzy or been accessible only after contact with some external trigger. Granted, there were certain things that would always stick with him, things from his youth and the time Before, when everything in his head was quiet and he had a far easier time committing things to memory, things like the acidic tang of the sweet red wine he and his brother used to share on the palace balcony in the evenings, the particular blend of smoke and incense when the priests would perform burnt offerings at the temple, the sounds of the horns and flutes and the crowds at the solstice festival.

But most of it was lost to time and the limits of consciousness, the details fuzzy, worn down and left to the elements like limestone statues, vague representations of what they had once stood for. Ardyn didn’t mind, really. He’d done a great many things in life that he would rather forget about.

Yet here and there something would occasionally come along and prompt him to remember, reach deep inside himself and dredge up some image, some scene long forgotten, so buried that Ardyn had forgotten that he’d _forgotten_ it. It was rare, and usually fleeting, something he brushed off nearly instantly as most of his old memories almost felt alien to him now. They’d happened to someone else, a good man who’d made mistakes eons ago, not the monster he was now.

Currently, that monster was sitting at a hotel bar in Galdin Quay, noncommittally sipping some cocktail while noncommittally chatting to the bartender while rolling a sturdy Ascension coin back and forth over his knuckles and thinking noncommittally about how the Prince ( _wait, he was King now, wasn’t he? He became King the moment Regis had been murdered_ ) would react to the news regarding the ferry while ignoring the din inside the back of his mind. He spotted young Noctis and his entourage coming down the wharf; they stuck out like sore thumbs amidst the other tourists (not that Ardyn himself blended any better).

He finished the cocktail, left the bar, and wandered down the deck, heading out to greet them and get his first _real_ look at this so called Chosen King. The voices in his head roused as he stepped into the sunlight, screaming loudly in protest before he was able to quiet them, squinting at the sight of the Prince─ _excuse him, the_ King─leading his retainers down the jetty.

Noctis wasn’t much to look at, a sort of scrawny boy, and Ardyn chuckled sardonically, wondering just what his brother would have said about his descendant. _They’ve all gone soft,_ he mused, gaze meandering to his blond companion─ _ah, yes, the Nif in disguise, unawares─_ and then the tall, bespectacled one─ _the Hand, the glorified nanny._

And behind them, this wall of a man staring aimlessly off at the water, he had to be the Shield.

Ardyn came to a stop, speech ready on his tongue, attentions flitting back through Noctis and his companions, and then the Shield─ _Gladiolus, that was his name, wasn’t it?─_ turned and looked at him, and all of his words, all of his thoughts evaporated, the voices in his head falling silent for just a moment.

He knew that face. From a place not here and a time long past, he _knew_ that face. The hair was different, the skin a little paler, the beard shorter, but the features were there, all identical.

He hadn’t thought about any of it in years, centuries, really, yet here it was, alive, staring back at him, real and tangible as ever.

Ardyn stumbled through the ensuing conversation, trying to keep his eyes off Gladiolus ( _Gladio,_ his friends call him, _Gladio, not Gladiolus_ ) as he told young Noctis of the ferry and watched the Chosen King’s face fall at the news that he wouldn’t be able to reach Altissa just yet. It should have given him some joy, some kind of rise, but instead Ardyn found that he didn’t really care, instead stealing glances at Gladiolus, who regarded him with quiet suspicion.

Ardyn could place that face. He hadn’t thought on it in years, but he knew.

His thoughts a swirling brew, one further agitated by the angry cries rattling around in his skull, Ardyn pushed past them on the jetty. He turned back, lightly flipping the Ascension coin he’d been carrying in Noctis’ direction, completely unsurprised when Gladiolus stepped in and caught it.

They made eye contact for a brief moment, and then Ardyn turned away, heading down the jetty to the beach as he felt the memories bubble up.

\---

_Ardyn’s brother returns from the campaign with many treasures._

_There are always spoils with every victorious venture (and they have all been victorious, thank the Astrals), and with each the wealth of their little provence grows. While his brother has the head for the battlefield, Ardyn minds the people, has forged his Covenants with the powers that govern them to ensure their safety. Neither of them minds a throne just yet, and there are whisperings among the laypeople as to which of them will eventually claim it, but neither of them has such designs just yet, instead focused on establishing their territory and securing what will become their kingdom, should they survive._

_Included in this last haul from the east are the staples, of course, gold and silver and slaves, jewels and marble, statues and tapestries and fine silks and weaves, and the rarities, the odd statues to gods Ardyn doesn’t recognize, the glass baubles with colors so bright they nearly burn the eyes, the strange swords with the curved blade that no sheath could hold._

_But the finest treasure among them is the warrior his brother has found along the warpath._

_Young, impossibly tall and broad shouldered, with deep brown hair and warm brown eyes set beneath a strong brow, he’s as handsome as he is fierce and talented. Scavenged from some exotic village along the trail, he proved himself along the campaign, rising quickly through the ranks through acts of sheer bravery until his brother saw fit to set him at his side, a jewel finally at rest in a crown. He was a force to be reckoned with, untouchable on the battlefield, known for hiding his face behind an imposing bronze mask._

_The people have taken to calling him Gilgamesh, a name which has roots in a tongue that Ardyn doesn’t know. Whatever his birth name was, it was left behind with his people and culture, replaced with the title of a hero. Ardyn finds the name fitting. He can’t think of this firebrand going by anything other than Gilgamesh._

_His brother ensures that his new warrior, his new Shield, has the finest of everything. His plate comes from the finest armourer in the city, and weaponry is cast by the best blacksmith. He is given rooms in the palace, all finely furnished, along with slaves to see to his needs, and any other want he could have is immediately seen to._

_In keeping, Ardyn is tasked with treating him._

_The first time he is called in to see him is after a sparring session gone wrong. It’s nothing severe, he’s told, but he still rushes anway, trying to hide his fluster, knowing how upset his brother will be if anything happens to his prized protector. He arrives in Gilgamesh’s quarters to find him sitting on one of the couches, clad in a loose tunic, his arm limp at the side, an almost bored expression on his face._

_It occurs to Ardyn that this is the first time he has really seen Gilgamesh without the mask. He’s handsome, with a strong brow and a defined nose, a thin scar winding through his full lower lip. His face is framed by dark hair, loosely pulled into a ponytail, and a well groomed beard dots his jaw._

_Ardyn wonders if secretly he hides his face out of vanity._

_It takes coaxing for Gilgamesh to even admit that anything is wrong. Gilgamesh insists that he is well, that nothing is amiss, and Ardyn knows the moment he leaves him unattended Gilgamesh will try and tend his own injuries. Undoubtedly, he’s done so in the past, too stubborn to see a healer or any kind of help at all, because that would force him to acknowledge his own injuries, his own weaknesses._

_Ardyn nearly begins to argue with him, until wordlessly, brazenly, Gilgamesh stands and sheds his tunic. Ardyn can see that his arm has come loose at the socket, trying to focus on assessing his injury instead of letting his gaze wander over his broad torso. He pulls himself out of it, steps behind Gilgamesh and runs his hands over one finely muscled arm, gently rolls it back into the shoulder socket and soothes out the wound._

_When he steps back around, Gilgamesh has silent gratitude in his eyes and a small smile on his lips._

_Ardyn returns the gesture._

_After that, they meet frequently. It ranges from passing in the halls to exchanging extended company at the lavish feasts his brother hosts, to the semi regular private treatment of whatever the latest minor injury that Gilgamesh has earned. They develop a rapport quick enough, and Ardyn finds himself taken with Gilgamesh’s zeal for life, with the way he never seems to exhaust himself, wonder in his eyes and fire in his heart. He’s lovely conversation, not the most eloquent at times, but his voice is soothing with a soft accent, and Ardyn loves to listen to him regale his stories of youth and conquest in the late hours of night. Gilgamesh enjoys teasing, in line with his boisterous nature, and before their first month is out he takes to calling Ardyn by a variety of nicknames._

_In the times when Ardyn worries himself with those he cannot save, with the plague threatening their populace and no end in sight, Gilgamesh’s bright smile and vivacious eyes serve to put him at ease._

_It isn’t long before Ardyn wonders if there’s something more between them. Ardyn prefers the company of men, and his ‘deviant’ tastes are the subject of quiet rumors around the palace, although Ardyn does his best to keep his affairs discreet, for the sake of his brother and their standing. But he fantasizes frequently, conjures up the image of Gilgamesh in his mind’s eye, remembers how he felt beneath his fingers, wonders what he would be like as a lover._

_And so, he begins to explore. He smiles affectionately when Gilgamesh speaks to him, listens intently and eagerly, teases back with the same kind of bravado. Carefully, he lets his touch linger at times when he treats Gilgamesh, trailing his fingers over an arm, a shoulder, a thigh._

_Gilgamesh never objects._

_It all grinds to a halt when his brother leaves for a campaign in the north. Gilgamesh goes with, and they are gone for several weeks, leaving Ardyn to run the affairs of the kingdom, to deal with the growing sick at their gates and the unrest among their civilians._

_When his brother returns, Ardyn is immediately summoned to Gilgamesh’s side._

_The Shield is not well, and Ardyn finds him resting with a festering, pus-filled wound carved into his breast, running out to the shoulder, and a second fresh cut on his thigh, one that has torn open several times and still oozes thick, dark blood. Propped up on one of the couches, he’s still awake and coherent, not yet having been taken by the fever coursing through him, but Ardyn can see the strain on his smile._

_He wastes no time, soothing the fever, letting his magic chase the fever from Gilgamesh’s veins, and then man is quickly in better spirits. With Gilgamesh out of danger, Ardyn seals the cut on his thigh, slowly, leaving nothing but a faint white scar in its wake, one that he runs his fingers over, pretending not to note how Gilgamesh’s tunic tents ever so slightly at the front._

_Deft fingers turn to his chest next, Ardyn’s hand shaking ever so slightly as he draws the infection from the wound, his other hand clutching at Gilgamesh’s opposite shoulder, braced there for balance. Even seated like this, Gilgamesh is a beast of a man, and Ardyn feels small next to him, hand splayed out on his chest as he seals the wound, working his way out towards Gilgamesh’ shoulder. Eventually the last of the wound is closed, the flesh knitted back together along a thin, faintly purple seam, and Ardyn begins to trace it back towards the center of Gilgamesh’s pectoral._

_He freezes as Gilgamesh lays a broad hand over his own._

_Gilgamesh doesn’t pull him away, however. Instead, he runs the calloused pad of his thumb over Ardyn’s digits, over each knuckle, slowly, appreciatively. Ardyn’s other hand slides to Gilgamesh’s broad neck and then up to his jaw, cupping the side of his face for a moment before he leans in._

_Their lips lock in a searing, needy kiss, all of those weeks of little touches and smiles and teasing boiling over in one instant. Gilgamesh burns through life like wildfire; it seems only fitting that his embrace should be so torrid as well._

_In another moment Ardyn sinks to his knees before him, before this legend of a man, shoving aside the folds and ties of his tunic to yank his underthings away and press his face between his thighs. It’s better than any of the fantasies he’s ever dreamed up, Gilgamesh’s hands in his hair, moaning as Ardyn works him with his mouth, and Ardyn is lost in the heady rush of it all._

_When he’s finished, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, trying to ignore the throbbing between his own legs, he finds he can’t bring himself to meet Gilgamesh’s stare. He’s gone and ruined it between them, he can feel it, in one moment of selfishness, and Ardyn stands and turns, rushing to the door before Gilgamesh can protest._

_Gilgamesh is his brother’s Shield; Ardyn should know better than to interfere._

\---

Two thousand years later, Ardyn still hadn’t learned his lesson.

In fact, he’d made it his business to interfere, to orchestrate those around him, to put pieces where he needed them to be, honing his skills over the centuries he’d wandered Eos. Noctis and his companions were no exception; they, too, needed prodding, needed some manipulation to put them on the right path. Ardyn had interfered at the Quay, mildly, just to satisfy his own curiosity, but now he had taken their hands and literally guided them along the way.

With Imperial control in place, the four couldn’t reach the Disc of Cauthess, where Titan knelt beneath the Meteor. All of it, of course, had been set up by Ardyn, who knew full well Noctis would seek Titan to make a covenant at the Oracle’s behest, something he himself had done back when Lucis was a fledgling kingdom (Titan always was a right bastard).

Another roadblock in their way, this one literal, Noctis had reluctantly agreed to Ardyn’s offer to escort them, recognizing that his back was against the wall and this was undoubtedly the easiest solution.

Just as Ardyn had planned it.

They’d driven half the day, Noctis and his retainers following him down the winding road up over the Crag. As the sun had begun to set, Ardyn had pulled over to stop for gas, then suggesting they stop for the night, mostly because the screeching in his mind had become unbearable as it often did once the sun dropped below the horizon. There had been some mild protest, but Noctis and his retinue had agreed, taking up at the caravan parked outside the station.

Ardyn had joined them, half out of awkwardness and what he was certain was Ignis’ insistence that they keep him on their good side until they reached the Disc, and half out of his own curiosity and mild insistence on inserting himself into their company. The conversation had helped focus him and quiet his mind, and Ignis had turned out to be a surprisingly good cook in addition to an excellent nanny.

As the evening had wound down, the stars beginning to dot the sky, Ardyn was left alone with Gladiolus out under the awning. Ignis had taken to cleaning their dishes, and Noctis had disappeared with his other friend, the Nif, likely sitting in silence and amusing themselves with whatever reverie their phones held.

Gladiolus was the only one who didn’t seem to have apprehensions about Ardyn, and Ardyn wondered if it were out of a sense of naivete (which he doubted, Gladiolus seemed rather sharp) or out of confidence, if Gladio didn’t worry because he felt that whatever threat Ardyn posed was one he was ready to handle.

Ardyn far preferred the latter option. 

They didn’t speak─there wasn’t any need for words or smalltalk between them. Instead, the silence stretched between them and as the minutes dragged on, and Ardyn found it oddly... comfortable.

He stole a glance at Gladiolus, briefly surveying the features of his face. What must it be like, to serve and protect king in this day and age, surrounded by modern convenience, with tradition rapidly falling to the wayside? What did Gladio think of his family’s legacy, of his role?

Clearly he took pride in them, judging from the beautiful eagle inked in black over his shoulders and back. Ardyn wasn’t quite sure when that tradition had begun─about six, maybe seven hundred years ago, if he had to take a guess?─but it was clear that Gladio had embraced it. Ardyn could only assume he had taken on the rest of his duties with the same level of enthusiasm.

How sad that it would all end with him.

\---

_For two days, Ardyn continues on as if nothing happened._

_He doesn’t avoid Gilgamesh, but he doesn’t seek out his company the way he had before. Instead he throws himself back into his tasks, into visiting the quarantined sections of the city to try and save those he can, into praying at the temples for help from the heavens that he so needs._

_On the second night, as Ardyn pores through tomes of history his brother has ransacked from an ancient library on his latest campaign, searching for mentions of a plague similar to theirs, Gilgamesh comes to him. He’s deep in his worries when he hears faint raps on his chamber doors, and at first Ardyn considers ignoring it; it’s undoubtedly some servant, and if the issue is important they’ll just enter._

_But the raps continue, and Ardyn shuts the book, strides across the room, and flings the door open, only to be greeted by the towering figure of Gilgamesh._

_For such a large man, Ardyn thinks, he has a rather delicate knock._

_Wordlessly, he steps back, allows Gilgamesh into his rooms, shutting the door behind him. He stands with his back to it, Gilgamesh a few feet away, the light of the braziers catching the sharp curves of his stature, but leaving his face obscured in deep shadows._

_“You ran from me,” Gilgamesh says, but when he looks up at Ardyn there’s no anger, no disappointment in his tone. Instead, there’s a faint grin at play on his lips, a curious light in his eyes._

_“I didn’t...” Ardyn begins, before he gestures futilely and falls silent. Nothing he could say would matter. He had assumed something, and he had been wrong. “I’m sorry.”_

_“Don’t be,” comes the reply. Ardyn drops his gaze to the floor, watches Gilgamesh’ feet shuffle into his field of view as he approaches._

_“I should be sorry,” Gilgamesh continues, “for letting you escape, and for not chasing you until now.” Ardyn picked up his head as Gilgamesh closed a bit more distance between them, thick fingers brushing against his jaw before uncurling against the side of his face._

_“Allow me to apologize?” he asks, skimming a thumb over Ardyn’s cheekbone._

_“They’ll talk,” Ardyn says flatly. “I’ve no desire for that to follow you.”_

_“It won’t,” Gilgamesh returns. “We’re both too great to be plagued by rumors.”_

_Ardyn wishes that were true, but he pushes the worry from his mind as Gilgamesh leans down slightly to kiss him. It’s slow, and intimate, but it still_ burns _the way Gilgamesh does, a passion that sears across Ardyn’s skin and simmers in his veins._

_He offers no protests as Gilgamesh continues to kiss him, peeling the clothing from their forms as they stumble to the bed. Gilgamesh is a warm, solid weight on him as their bodies slide together, limbs entwined, skin searing at every point of contact. They move against one another, trading touches, until Gilgamesh slips a hand between Ardyn’s thighs and urges his fingers inside him, turns him over and presses him into the sheets as he drives into his body._

_Gilgamesh stays the night, even though Ardyn pleads with him to go back while the halls are still empty._

\---

A week later, the Shield headed for Taelpar Crag.

Ardyn, of course, followed.

He didn’t find out immediately, unfortunately; intelligence had slowed to a crawl, most of his officers finding his requests to keep an eye on the King and his retainers (who were making minimal efforts to conceal their identities) petty and nothing more than a waste of time and resources. Rather, he discovered Gladiolus’ intentions when the King’s retinue showed up at his doorstep in Steyliff without the Shield.

Ignis had been guarded about Gladiolus’ absence, and Ardyn wondered if it were out of resentment or something... else, perhaps. In the end, it had been Prompto who had let slip that all they knew was that Gladiolus had mentioned Taelpar Crag and the Marshal.

Ardyn had heard the stories and read copies of the declassified reports (gathered, naturally, by his own merry band of Imperial spies) of what had been discovered down in the Crag some thirty odd years ago. He’d studied the maps, read the names of those who had gone down but never returned, and seen the picture of the only one who had.

That man, Cor Leonis, Cor the _Immortal_ ─a title that Ardyn had always found highly amusing─was the one to lead Gladiolus down into the Crag. Perched on the hood of his car, clear across the gorge, Ardyn wondered what that must have felt like, to walk willingly down into the scar of earth that had nearly become his tomb thirty years earlier.

_What a novel concept mortality was._

He knew Gladiolus had inevitably come after what had occurred at Aracheole Stronghold, after Ravus had nearly laid waste to him. That must have been humbling, so humbling, for the sheltered retainer, but Gladiolus hadn’t seem particularly shaken. Rather, he’d seemed... determined.

His father Clarus, Ardyn knew, had never pursued a venture to the Tempering Grounds. He had more to lose, Ardyn supposed, with a King on the throne and a young son at home to protect. But for Gladiolus, this were an all or nothing situation.

Ardyn watched them disappear down into the Crag, two small dots against a daunting cliffside, his gaze following them until they disappeared from view, lost among the rocks and spires that lined the gorge. Hauntingly, he pondered if that would be the last time he would ever see dear Gladiolus.

That certainly would be a sour note to end things on.

But he was curious, so curious, burning with the need to know if Gladiolus would stand against Gilgamesh and prevail, or if he would be cut down like all of the others, to the point where he had suspended and delegated his other operations up at Steyliff Grove to take a few days and follow them out here, to this trail leading down into the earth just north of Cape Caem. Gladiolus was Shield to the Chosen King; didn’t that mean that fate must have chosen him as well?

_Fate chose you, too, lest you forget._

Silently, Ardyn wished Gladiolus and his guide all the best. He knew better than to pray to the powers that be.

\---

_Ardyn finds himself taken._

_He and Gilgamesh keep their affairs as private as they can, late night rendezvous or stolen kisses in deserted rooms. Under the public eye, they can be friendly, they can wander the forum together, they can sit side by side at feasts, they can lounge on the same sofa after hours in the tricinium. They are never overt with their affections (although once Gilgamesh kisses him in the gardens as the vilicus and a kitchen girl passed by, and Ardyn, normally so reserved, had gone utterly scarlet when he realized they had seen), but the rumors start soon enough._

_Gilgamesh never outright denies them. Instead, he scoffs at anyone who would think him lesser for having chosen Ardyn as a lover, invites them to test their mettle against him. None ever accept, and the rumors quiet to the point where they stop reaching Ardyn’s ears._

_It is a relief, because he has far greater things to worry about._

_The plague is spreading faster, their quarantine proving ineffective at containing it. Despite his best efforts, Ardyn can neither figure out how it spreads nor how he can stem it. His magic is useless, pushed back by whatever dark miasma has taken hold in his patients, and it all frustrates him to no end, angers him. He feels useless, because he has failed to protect their populace, failed to shield them from this terrible threat and cure those already afflicted with it._

_Gilgamesh brings him treasures, tunics of fine silk and clasps of bronze, a beautiful, balanced dagger with a ruby at the hilt, countless books on medicine and healing and the body imported from foreign lands and translated from languages just as exotic. He hates to see Ardyn so distressed and longs to put that smile back on his face, the easygoing, lazy grin he had so often sported before all of this began._

_Ardyn does his best to appease him, but it’s just for show._

_He takes his woes to the Temple of Shiva, offers her a burnt sacrifice and prays until the flames from his offering have nearly died down. It is then that Gentiana appears to him, steps from the altar to kneel before him at eye level._

_She asks him what he would sacrifice to save his people._

_Anything, Ardyn says, without thinking, but he means it._

_She turns his hands over, clasps them in hers, and he can feel old magic flowing through them, powerful and sharp. As it seeps into his bones, she tells him that he has been chosen by the Crystal, by the Heart of Eos, to cure his people, but he will take their burdens unto himself before he is purified._

_He is the Chosen King, she tells him, not his brother._

_Ardyn cares little for titles._

_She leaves him then, vanishing into a swirl of cold air that comes down as the last flames die out on the brazier with his offering, one that sends a chill through him. It settles in his ribs, following him as he leaves the temple._

_He returns to the palace, sneaks into Gilgamesh’s chambers, and sleeps beside him, using Gilgamesh’s heat to chase that chill from his heart. Just after dawn, he leaves the palace, wanders through empty streets until he finally arrives at the barricade of the quarantined quarter. The guards let him through, and Ardyn is greeted by the horrors on the other side._

_There are bodies in the streets, some alive, most dead, along with waste and trash. The smell of it all churns his stomach, but he presses on. He finds the valetudinaria, set up in several apartment buildings. The air inside is stale, full of death and despair, as he walks through the rows of the sick laid out on the floor dozens reach for him._

_The first to be healed is a young mother. Her skin is mottled with black pustules, and her eyes weep ichor, the sclera mottled. Ardyn takes her hand, and he can feel something stirring within her, something born of the miasma consuming her. But now his magic pushes back, pulls it from her. She feels nothing, but for him, it is agony, as whatever this entity is leaves her body and crawls into his. When it’s done, when her skin is free of the blemishes and her eyes clear, he is nearly spent, but as she looks upon him and smiles, with tears in her eyes, some of the weight lifts from his shoulders._

_There are hundreds of sick here._

_Ardyn will not leave until he has seen each and every one._

\---

Ardyn was strangely relieved to see Gladiolus return.

He wouldn’t say he had worried over the fate of the young Shield, but there was always something satisfying about an underdog story, and Gladiolus was truly an underdog next to Gilgamesh.

So when the two tiny shapes of the Marshal and Gladiolus had climbed out of the gorge, Ardyn had smiled in bemusement.

_Well done._

Cor, surprisingly, had parted ways with him shortly thereafter, piling into a black vehicle and taking off, leaving Gladiolus alone on the side of the road. Ardyn was surprised, finding it strange that he wouldn’t return Gladiolus to at least some blip of civilization, but their parting seems amicable, if the friendly waves they exchanged were any kind of barometer.

Gladiolus started down the road, black bag slung over one shoulder, heading north. Ardyn watched him walk, an ant crawling across a hill, noting how Gladiolus would turn and wave at each passing car. _Hitchhiking,_ he realized.

The man had just defeated a centuries old _legend_ and he was now going to _hitchhike_ back to town.

Ardyn chuckled to himself, the voices in his head echoing with a chorus of laughter. He slid off the hood, pulling the driver’s side door of his car open, heistating as he caught sight of Gladiolus, that speck walking down the road on the other side of the gorge. Leaning on the door, one arm slung over the top of the window, the other braced on the roof of his car, Ardyn pondered his options.

He had intended to simply head north, now that his curiosity had been satisfied, make a quick stop at Tollhends Stronghold and then drive on back to Steyliff before the Imperial Army pulled out of the area. But... upon some reflection, he _could_ stop in Lestallum, couldn’t he? And there was plenty of room in the car, after all.

His passengers cried out in protest and anguish. Ardyn silenced them, dropping into the driver seat and turning on the ignition.

Gladiolus had survived the Tempering Grounds and defeated Gilgamesh, a feat no other could boast since this Crag had opened. He should ride in a chariot drawn by white horses, welcomed back as a hero, not left to awkwardly shuffle down a dusty road, searching for a stranger kind enough to give him a lift.

It took Ardyn the better part of an hour to drive around the end of the gorge and get himself on the same stretch of road as Gladiolus, and deep down Ardyn hoped that Gladiolus would have found another ride in that time, resolving the dilemma without any involvement from Ardyn himself. But it was not to be, because as he eased onto the straightaway Ardyn could clearly see Gladiolus, maybe a mile down the road, with no other vehicles in sight.

At first, Ardyn passed by Gladiolus, giving in to the chorus of voices telling him to abandon him out here, but then Ardyn managed to clear his thoughts enough to hit the brakes and pull over. Before he could change his mind, he leaned over and pulled the door release on the passenger side door, pushing it open.

In his rearview, he watched Gladiolus stride confidently up to the car, approaching the passenger door. A moment later, Gladiolus leaned down in the doorway, dropping his bag to the ground.

“Hey, thanks for stop─” he began, the smile on his face falling as he realized just _who_ had stopped for him.

Ardyn tapped the top of the wheel. “Still interested in a lift?”

Perhaps Gladiolus would say no. That was a possibility Ardyn hadn’t considered.

Instead Gladiolus sighed, one hand braced on the door, looking away for just a moment. “What’s the catch?”

“Nothing. I happen to be on my way to Steyliff Grove, my passenger seat is free, and I can drop you anywhere along the way.”

“That’s it?”

Ardyn held up both hands. “I promise.”

Gladiolus straightened up, looking first off to his right, down the road, and then scanning over to his left. No one in sight. His jacket had shifted as he’d straightened up, and Ardyn could see a thick set of white bandages taped around his ribs, blooming red in patches. Those inside him sang for him to tear Gladiolus open, to spill his blood and gut him _like the animal he was_ , but Ardyn chased the thoughts away as ridiculous.

“All right,” Gladiolus finally conceded. He picked up his bag, about to swing it into the floor of the passenger seat.

Ardyn half-heartedly gestured over his shoulder. “You can put it in the back.” After a moment, he added, “I imagine you value your legroom.”

Gladiolus cocked a brow in surprise, but did it anyway, tugging open the back door to drop his bag on the floor and then shut it. Task handled, Gladiolus sunk down into the passenger seat, and Ardyn could see the relief wash over his face. His wound was clearly paining him, no doubt aggravated by walking and hauling his rucksack, and Ardyn figured that had to be a major factor in his decision to accept.

_Better the devil you know, right?_

He put the car back in drive, pulling back onto the deserted road as Gladiolus settled in to the seat beside him.

\---

_For a time, things are calm._

_Ardyn is able to help the sick, the news of which spreads quickly. It brings a sense of hope to the people, and their faith in the leadership of Ardyn and his brother begins to renew. The unrest among them quells, and it isn’t long before his brother sets his sights on distant lands again._

_But now, the plague has taken its toll across borders, and other powers are feeling it. While Ardyn looks to stabilize their own holdings before looking to expand their lines, his brother looks to the southwest, arguing that they should capitalize on their target’s recent losses from the plague. Ardyn is unable to talk him down, and his brother prepares to go to war once more._

_Yet Ardyn does manage to talk him into sending an envoy, playing off his brother’s fears that their army, already thinned by the epidemic, may not be strong enough for the siege. The envoy declares their intent to incorporate this kingdom into Lucis, by force if needed, and much to the surprise of both Ardyn and his brother, the envoy returns with an invitation for talks. Evidently, in the wake of heavy losses, the ruling king has no desire to subject his people to further losses._

_His brother leaves to go and negotiate with them, to incorporate their kingdom without conquer. Ardyn much prefers it to stomping through their capital on the warpath, paying for the acres with the lives they lose along the way. They need the stability, too, in the wake of the devastation from this scourge._

_Gilgamesh accompanies him, ever his brother’s loyal protector. Ardyn doesn’t worry for him; he knows Gilgamesh can more than fend for himself._

_But as the weeks go on, Ardyn does miss him._

_He spends his days healing the sick, and the numbers confined to the valetudinaria dwindle. After two months, they reduce the size of the quarantined area, scaling it back to a few blocks around the hospital. The civilians resume their lives, and the unrest among them quells as they see the plague beaten back._

_Ardyn, however, grows weaker by the day._

_His skin turns pale, and the color drains from his face, leaving his lips bluish and his eyes dead. His hair turns dull, the color darkening from the normally vibrant auburn, and the sclera of his eyes mottles with black. On bad days, days when he’s strained to his limit, his gums ooze the same dark ichor, coloring his teeth black. He looks half-dead, and he wonders how much longer he can continue doing this._

_Shiva told him he would take the burdens of his people. He knows that’s what he’s done, lifted the plague from them, taken on their maladies._

_The voices inside him multiply, exponentially, until they are a chorus, chewing at him, whispering a thousand wants and demands, sometimes building up into a frenzy of screaming within his skull. He lays awake most nights, thrashing, sobbing, palms pressed to his temples, wishing he could just crush his own skull and make everything go quiet once more._

_He longs for Gilgamesh’s presence at his side, for someone to soothe him and ground him._

_But he is alone, and he must carry on as is._

_By the time his brother returns, his Shield at his side, Ardyn is nearly bedridden. The quarantine in the city has been lifted for weeks, the remaining sick confined to the valetudinaria, and Ardyn visits them when he can, usually carried on a litter. The voices never cease now, a constant din between his ears, and he finds it difficult to concentrate on anything with the incessant barrage._

_Gilgamesh comes at once, although Ardyn begs the servants to keep him away. “I’m not well,” he insists, pleading, delirious. “I don’t want him to see me like this.”_

_But he demands to be at Ardyn’s side nonetheless. The servants caring for Ardyn are powerless to stop Gilgamesh when he forces open the door, several small frightened girls who scatter at the sight of him. Ardyn, too, wants to hide, so that Gilgamesh, vibrant, strapping Gilgamesh, won’t see how warped he has become, twisted with disease._

_But Gilgamesh sees. His jaw sets, his brow furrows, and his eyes shine for just a second in the light of the brazier._

_Silently, he crosses the room, lowers himself and sits beside Ardyn on the bed, reaches for him and smooths his hair back. For a second, everything goes quiet in Ardyn’s head, but he chases Gilgamesh’s hands away with what little strength he has left._

_“You shouldn’t be here,” he comments, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re liable to catch it yourself.”_

_He knows it’s not true, he knows once the plague is inside him it can’t leave, but he can’t handle Gilgamesh’s pitying stare._

_“I’ll take that chance,” Gilgamesh replies. He takes Ardyn’s hand this time, and Ardyn is out of strength to fight him._

_Instead, Ardyn closes his eyes, surrendering. “I’m dying,” he says, and it’s the first time he’s had the courage to admit it, even to himself. Gilgamesh squeezes his hand a little tighter._

_Ardyn finds it in him to open his eyes, to look Gilgamesh square in the face. “I need to go to Angelgard,” he says, his tongue a lead weight in his mouth. “Will you take me there?”_

\---

“It’s Gladiolus, isn’t it?”

“You stopped for me and you don’t even remember my name?”

Ardyn grinned. _Humor. How original._ “I’m awful with names,” he returned, “but I never forget a face.” After a moment, he added, “I trust you’ll forgive my forgetfulness?”

“Nothing to forgive, you weren’t wrong.” Gladiolus leaned further back in his seat. “It’s Gladiolus, but I just go by Gladio.”

“Sure,” Ardyn replied. “Gladio.” It sounded odd on his tongue, more... familiar. Cute, even. Not like the more regal, dignified flow of _Gladiolus,_ despite his name’s origin.

“So... what should I call you?”

“Ardyn is fine,” Ardyn replied. _Better than the Accursed, at any rate._

“Alright. Ardyn. Got it.”

They continued on in silence (although, things were never truly silent for Ardyn), the miles flying by, the landscape slowly shifting as they continued northward along the Crag. Ardyn didn’t really mind the silence; he vastly preferred the nothingness to listening to the blatherings of someone too anxious to handle the quiet.

Ardyn would steal little glances at his passenger, just like he were checking his sights in the mirrors. It became almost routine─left side mirror, rearview, Gladio, right side, rearview. He noted the smaller things, the way Gladio’s mouth turned down at the corners, the tendons in his neck straining slightly, how his brow was slightly drawn. Ardyn would have been able to recognize those signs anywhere; Gladio was clearly hurting but unwilling to admit it, stubborn, displaying behavior typical of a man in his line of work, where showing vulnerability could deem one unfit. _Oh, how oddly familiar._

And the more glances he stole, the more Ardyn realized that the sight of Gladio in pain was distressing him.

This whole affair had dusted off some long dormant sympathies in Ardyn, ones he’d thought he’d buried alongside other such moralities. Back before his fall, Ardyn had spent his days trying to ease the pain of others, but now, well... now the suffering of others generally mattered very little to him.

_They had all turned their backs on him; why should he care about their plights?_

The voices shouted him down for his concern, citing his thoughts as weak, and Ardyn responded with anger, a flame flaring up in his chest, fed by the bellows of his indignation at their assertion that they should dictate his actions. While they may have granted him power, they still inhabited _his_ form; it had never been and never would be an equal partnership.

If he chose to pity Gladio, so be it. It just meant that he would make Gladio’s death a quick one when the time came.

 _How ignoble,_ Ardyn thought, that this Shield would die at his hands after having achieved such a feat. Alas. But that was all still years off, at any rate.

Gladio stirred, shifted, the front of his leather jacket dropping and revealing more of those bandages. The red was spreading, fresher in patches, crimson compared to the dull brown of the dried clusters. Ardyn frowned to himself. Hadn’t he been taught anything of how to care for himself, how to treat his cuts and set his limbs? And what of Leonis, to let him wander off in such a state, wounds so crudely tended to?

Ardyn fixed his gaze back out the windshield, glancing once to the sun, low in the sky, dangling above the western horizon. He hadn’t planned to stop; he’d banked on driving through the night and knew he could do it, but he wondered if a pause might be better for his passenger, a chance to redress his wounds and more properly address them.

He kept a firm eye on Gladio as the sun slowly drifted below the horizon line, looking for any sign of improvement of declination, anything that might indicate a new symptom, a sign of infection or fever. Gladio seemed largely unchanged, although his grip had gone white knuckle around his knee.

As darkness settled in, the unholy choir in his head cresting into a ballad, Ardyn looked for the next stop that might offer lodging enough to put them up for the night. Eventually he spotted something that looked like a decent strip of lights, pulling off the highway and onto a long neglected stretch of asphalt that functioned as a main drag.

One hand resting on the head of the gearshift, the other placed at the top of the wheel, Ardyn slowly rolled through town until he found a long, low building crowned with the word _MOTEL_ in glowing neon out front. _It would do._

Gladio finally roused as the car stopped in the lot, Ardyn throwing it into park and killing the engine. He blinked, leaned forward, took in his surroundings.

“Shit, sorry,” he said, rubbing his eyes, fingers moving up to squeeze his temples next. “Didn’t mean to pass out the whole time and make you my chauffeur.”

“It’s no problem,” Ardyn said, opening the door, dropping one leg out.

“Did we... Are we there?”

“No,” Ardyn admitted. “We still have a few hours. But I figured it might be best to stop for the night.”

“Do you need me to drive?” Gladio offered. “I can take the wheel─” He broke off as Ardyn tilted his head down at the gearshift. “Oh. Yeah, I don’t know how to drive stick.” He smiled apologetically.

“Again, not a problem.” Ardyn threw his weight onto his left leg and stood, climbing out of the driver’s seat. He shut the door, keys firmly tucked into his palm, and turned to look out towards the western horizon, where the last few rays of pink were being drowned out by the blue-black of the night sky. The air was slightly humid, the breeze picking up as everything started to cool off, pushing Ardyn’s hair into his face as he turned and followed Gladio to the reception desk.

In the end, the motel only had one room available, but it fortunately had two beds, so there was no awkward dance of both of them offering to sleep in the car, the other declining and countering with their own offer, stuck in a loop of perceived politeness when both of them really just wanted the bed. Ardyn paid, trading a handful of bills for a key on a plastic tag.

At least this way he wouldn’t feel quite so guilty when he up and abandoned Gladio in the middle of the night.

(Not that he would have felt guilty anyway.)

\---

_Ardyn remembers little of the journey to Angelgard._

_He spends most of it ill, ferried on litters, or in the hold of the galley. He no longer eats, and sleep frequently eludes him, the voices in his head giving him no respite. Gilgamesh worries for him, but keeps his distance, and Ardyn knows Gilgamesh finds it hard to see him like this._

_After twelve days, they reach the shores of Angelgard._

_Ardyn is carried up from the hold of the ship, and he sees the sky for the first time in over a week. It is gray and overcast, nearly ominous, but Ardyn thinks nothing of it._

_Off the galley, on the shore, he stands on his own. He is weak, but being here, on this sacred island, invigorates him slightly._

_The spires of Angelgard loom above him, curling upwards, reaching out to touch the heavens, a plea from the earth to the sky carved in stone. He can feel his strength fading as they make their way up the shore, and he stumbles frequently, knees buckling underneath him. Each time Gilgamesh goes to help him up, to sling an arm over his shoulders, and each time Ardyn wriggles out of his grasp._

_This he has to do alone._

_They leave him at the base of the crater, and Ardyn summons the last of his energies to forge on alone. The path is rocky, steep in parts, and it isn’t long before Ardyn falls again, sliding a good distance before he’s able to stop himself. His cuts no longer bleed red blood; instead they ooze that familiar black film, and the sight of it churns Ardyn’s stomach._

_But the Astrals will help him. He has been promised._

_They will purify him, and he will end this plague._

_He reaches the bottom of the crater in a heap, but he can see the stairs to the stone altar, the carved archway where he can seek aid. Each step is agony to get him there, but he does it, stair by stair, one foot in front of the other, finally collapsing just below the arch. The prayer he utters is half mumbled, half incoherent thoughts, but someone hears, because suddenly Ardyn is dropping through the stone of the altar, falling, everything going black around him._

_At first, he panics, heart seizing with fear, wondering how far he will fall, but suddenly there is ground beneath him, although he cannot see it. All he sees is the void, stretching in every direction. He twists, turns, finally whips around, and he is in a marble hall, one lined with pillars, but between them Ardyn can still see the void. Below him, the lines on the marble wind and warp, black snakes on a white plain. Before him are stairs, leading upwards, and Ardyn begins to walk._

_At the top there is a long reflecting pool, set into the floor, and seated before it, legs drawn to her side, is Gentiana. She doesn’t look up as Ardyn approaches, and when he reaches for her, she fades away, like sand caught in a whirlwind. He walks down the side of the pool, stopping to look at his own horrific reflection in it. Haunting black eyes with gold irises stare back at him._

_“I come seeking your aid,” Ardyn begins, looking up to the void once more, “and your compassion.” He’s never communed with the Astrals in such a fashion before; he has no idea what to anticipate._

_He doesn’t know if they are bothering to listen, or if they can even hear him. “I have used what powers were so graciously granted to me to heal those that I could, but as I am I cannot continue,” he says, staring down at the water in the pool. “So I ask that you cleanse me of these maladies, that I may return to them and finish what I have started.”_

_Silence. Ardyn watches the ripples disrupt his reflection._

_“We cannot grant you what you ask.”_

_The voice is loud, booming, from every direction at once. Ardyn does his best to contain his flinch, curling the fingers of one hand into his palm._

_“Why? I swore a covenant─”_

_“The Heart of Eos now rejects you.”_

_Ardyn falls silent._

_“Through your deeds you have been corrupted beyond saving.”_

_“But I have_ done _as was asked of me, as was right!” he shouts, spinning, searching for this voice. “I have saved them, thousands of them, and now I ask─”_

_“What you ask we cannot grant you.” Firmer this time. Definitive._

_Ardyn feels tears prickling at his eyes, and he blinks, trying to clear them. Instead they spill over, a few running down the side of his face. When he glimpses himself in the pool, he sees they are not tears, but ichor, just like his blood._

_“So this is to be my end, then.”_

_“Your soul is too tainted to be allowed to Ascend to the plane.”_

_Ardyn starts to protest, a scream building in his throat, but he falls silent as the first of a dozen swords tumbles from the void and strikes the marble. The others follow, caging him in against the pool, and then dropping in a line leading up to him._

_The last strikes him in the chest, piercing him, forcing him back, sending him tumbling into the water. Ardyn hits the surface, but there is no water. It turns to smoke around him, and he continues to fall, twisting, until the smoke clears and he whips through the air, the wings of Angelgard far below him._

_He’s too shocked to cry out or struggle as he hurtles towards the ground, plummeting faster and faster. Somehow he turns onto his back, falling headfirst, staring up at the peaceful clouds lazily drifting by, ones that slowly grow smaller and smaller as he plunges towards the earth._

_Ardyn hits the stone altar so hard it cracks._

\---

Ardyn had plotted his escape from the moment he set foot in the room.

The room itself was small, a little on the dingy side, but clean and comfortable to get them through the night. Two beds, a nightstand between them, opposite a dresser with a gray CRT TV balanced on it─it was a little spartan, but Ardyn had suffered worse.

Gladio had taken up the far bed, claiming it by dropping his bag on it, the springs creaking in protest. Ardyn would have opted for the front one anyway, given that it was a shorter distance to the door. He’d thrown his things on it, settled in, and then Gladio had flicked the lights out with scarcely a word between them.

Ardyn didn’t sleep much, still dogged by the paranoid fear that relinquishing control of his body in such a fashion would allow the daemons inside him to move in, even after all these years. Instead, he lay there quietly, mulling over what he had to wrap up at Steyliff, listening to Gladio’s labored breathing, waiting for the moments when it would soften and even out.

But the minutes ticked on, Gladio instead rolling around, trying to get comfortable, which seemed to be a fruitless venture. Eventually, he sighed deeply, stood, the bed squeaking as his weight left it, and Ardyn heard six, seven footsteps and the sounds of a lightswitch being flicked on. Ardyn opened his eyes, looking to see where he had gone.

_Couldn’t he have just fallen asleep and made this easy?_

The light from the bathroom spilled into the room, a narrow band of white slashed over the dresser and onto the foot of Ardyn’s bed. He traced it back to the source, peering through the doorway, trying to assess whatever it was Gladio was doing. All he could make out was Gladio’s back and shoulders as he leaned over the sink, hands braced on the counter, one planted firmly on either side of it.

Ardyn sat up, swung his feet over the edge of the bed and found his footing on the carpet before standing. Silently, he padded over to the doorway, watching for just a moment. There was a smear of blood curled around Gladio’s hip, fresh and red, and his shoulders were beaded with sweat, glinting sharply in the fluorescent light.

“Gladio,” Ardyn said, voice low.

Gladio twisted to look at him over his shoulder. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.” He seemed reluctant to turn around, but the slight twist of his torso revealed more blood, oozing from that red, angry, very much _open_ wound.

“Will you let me help you with that?” Ardyn asked, gesturing to Gladio’s torso.

“I... sure,” Gladio conceded. “Thanks. Iggy usually does this kind of stuff for us.”

There was a long beat of silence, Ardyn stepping into the bathroom behind Gladio, moving slightly to his side to survey the counter. Spread out beside the sink were the old bandages, carefully cut away, now well stained with blood. Resting near them was a simple spool of thread, the end loose, along with a roll of medical tape, some ointments, and a fresh roll of bandages.

His stare meandered to Gladio’s reflection in the mirror, taking quick stock of his wound, a solid gash spanning the length of his torso.

Ardyn frowned. “Did he do that to you?”

“Did who?” Gladio said, and Ardyn genuinely wondered if he were playing dumb, or if Gladio were just too distracted by the situation before him to put it together.

“The Blademaster,” Ardyn said. “Gilgamesh.” He shuffled to stand at the side of the sink and get a better view of Gladio’s injury, not just the reflection of it. “I know you went to the Crag.”

Gladio dropped his gaze to his hands, resting just before the sink, a long curved needle held between one index finger and thumb.

“Yeah, he did,” Gladio murmured. “Got me pretty good.” He chuckled softly, worrying the needle between his fingers. Ardyn glanced from his face down to the wound, ugly and red, starting at Gladio’s pectoral where it slashed through his beautiful tattoo, trailing downwards over his stomach to where it ended just above his hip. Ardyn could see the ripped stitches, ones that Gladio no doubt intended to replace.

And he could smell the blood in the air, a familiar coppery tang that made the voices in his head sing with desire.

“You’re very much like he was,” Ardyn said, holding his hand out, and Gladio handed over the needle. “You even look the same.”

Gladio’s brows drew together in concentration, trying to put together what Ardyn had just said. _He’s smart, he’ll get it._

“You should be so proud to have beaten him,” Ardyn continued, pushing the needle into the pad of his finger.

“How do you...” Gladio trailed off, blinking twice, slowly.

“I’m older than I look,” Ardyn replied smoothly.

Gladio drew in a small breath. “A helluva lot older.”

Ardyn curled one corner of his mouth up into a lopsided grin. “Yes.” He plucked the thread off of the counter, before tapping his hand on the surface. “It’ll be easier if you sit.”

Gladio nodded, turning his back to it, and carefully pushed himself up, sitting with his back to the mirror. Ardyn set the needle and thread down and leaned around Gladio, snatched one of the white hand towels off the rack and ran it under the tap, wringing it out after to leave it damp but not soaking.

The wound was deep, having easily cut through the skin and subcutaneous fat, dipping into the muscles below. It was more severe than Ardyn had anticipated, and Ardyn knew that just a few stitches weren’t going to hold something like this, but it hadn’t cut down to the bone or any of his organs, so Gladio didn’t appear to be in any immediate danger, so long as he didn’t exert himself and they stopped the bleeding. Dotted along the sides of it were the remains of the stitches, some having snapped, others placed to shallowly, having ripped through the skin instead.

Ardyn closed his eyes for a second, overwhelmed by the scent and the sight of blood, trying to quiet the voices telling him to dip his fingers into that wound and lick them clean, to sink his nails in and claw until he tore Gladio open. After a moment, he centered himself, opening his eyes and pushing up his sleeves.

Wincing, Gladio put his arms behind him and shifted his weight back, leaning back slightly to give Ardyn easier access to his torso. Starting from the bottom, Ardyn wiped away the worst of the blood, cleaning up the wound enough to see clearly, and then gently pulled the torn stitches free. He was careful around those that had been caught in the congealed, drying blood, wetting them down before working the thread free of Gladio’s skin.

“Did you know him?” Gladio asked, his tone curious. “You sound like you did.”

“Indeed I did,” Ardyn replied, not looking up.

“That’s amazing,” Gladio said, and there was real wonder in his voice. Ardyn wanted to laugh at the irony of his comment. “Are you... are you a messenger, like Gentiana? Is that why you helped us?”

“No.”

“What are you, then? Can I ask?”

“I’m what he is,” Ardyn said, tugging a bit too harshly at a thread, not realizing it had a knot in it. Gladio grunted in surprise. “A soul too stubborn to move on. But unlike him, I’m harmless.” Ardyn felt a little pang of something like regret cross his heart with the lie.

“Good to know you won’t try to cleave me in two.”

_Not at the present, no._

Ardyn’s bloodied fingers worked over Gladio’s ribs now, tugging free thread after thread, the silence settling once more between them, broken up by Gladio’s occasional hiss of pain.

“What was it like, when you faced him?” Ardyn asked, almost surprised by the sound of his own voice.

“Scary as shit,” Gladio answered, and Ardyn was surprised by the frankness of his answer. “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Kept thinking I was going to die down there.”

_And what a shame that would have been._

Ardyn’s stained digits found the last few strands of thread at the top of the wound, pinching Gladio’s skin while he eased them free. He dropped the last little bit of bloody thread onto the counter, reaching for the needle, hand hovering just above it.

He could just stitch Gladio back up, cut him loose, and continue with his plan to leave once Gladio was asleep. He’d be patched up well enough that he would certainly survive, and it would be no trouble for him to find some kind of transportation to Lestallum from here.

Ardyn’s other hand touched the bottom of Gladio’s wound, splayed out over it, palm pressed to Gladio’s lower stomach, considering. Was there enough of _Ardyn_ still left in this bag of bones and ichor to even do this?

“Hold still,” Ardyn instructed, drawing on what little he had of himself amidst his thousands of passengers, summoning the last bits of the old magic he had been graced with. It bubbled up from somewhere deep inside him, a strange sort of warmth that he could feel flowing through his bones, until it spilled over, running through his fingers into Gladio’s skin.

“What are─” Gladio broke off, inhaling sharply through his nose as the wound in his side began to knit together under Ardyn’s hand. He didn’t protest, however, didn’t move away, just held still, like an animal that had been spotted by a predator.

Ardyn trailed his touch upwards, slowly weaving back muscle and skin beneath his palm, leaving a wide, purple scar in his wake. It wasn’t his finest work, but he as long past his peak, and he could feel himself draining, spending, wasting away with each inch he restored, those voices circling, ready to pounce the moment he finished this venture.

At last his hand was over Gladio’s pectoral, closing the last bits of the gash, where it dipped into Gladio’s ornate black tattoo. When the last bits knitted together, skin joining in a soft, dimpled scar, Ardyn relinquished his hold, let his magic fade and fizzle out, the warmth bleeding from him. He traced the end of the scar with his thumb, trying to keep a hold on his mind, beating those voices _back_ , singularly focused on the points where the black ink had been roughly sliced to prevent losing himself over to the daemons he harbored.

He didn’t know how long he had been staring before Gladio covered his hand with his own.

Everything went still, and Ardyn found it in him to meet Gladio’s pressing stare, the world around him fading out, save for Gladio’s face before him. Ardyn blinked, slowly, cataloging Gladio’s features, his strong brow, the curve of his upper lip, until he stopped seeing Gladio for Gladio and simply saw _him._

He might have been back in that room in the palace two thousand years ago, or he might have been here in this cheap motel bathroom, now─Ardyn didn’t know.

The Shield before him leaned down slightly, caging Ardyn in, and suddenly there were lips on his own, and the kiss was _burning,_ searing, and before Ardyn could stop himself his hand had skated to the Shield’s jaw, holding him there. For a long, blissful second, everything went absolutely silent in his head, no voices, no thoughts, all of it burned away, leaving Ardyn with just quiet nothingness as he closed his eyes.

And then they parted, the Shield pressing their foreheads together, sighing, his hand coming to curl around the back of Ardyn’s skull to steady him. Ardyn savored the last few seconds of silence, the world flowing back in around him, the hum of the fluorescent lights, the scent of aftershave and antiseptic, the sensation of cold tile under his feet.

Ardyn knew where he was. And he knew who stood before him.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he murmured thickly, “with this.”

“Wasn’t my intention,” came Gladio’s reply.

_Just use him. Use him and take what you want and leave like you intended. None of this matters─_

_It’s not_ **_him._ **

“You’d regret it,” Ardyn said, letting his hand fall from Gladio’s neck. He stepped back, letting his gaze tumble to the floor, the incessant cries of the parasites inside him once more clawing at the edges of his thoughts.

He left Gladio there, instead returning to his bed, collapsing onto his side and closing himself off from everything around him.

\---

_He wakes to agony._

_Which seems fitting, really, given that his last memory was colliding with the stone, his body mangled, gasping and screaming until the blackness overtook him. But he was no longer there, in the crater, no, this was somewhere quiet and sheltered. Beneath him is not rock, but  something soft, blankets, perhaps a cot._

_His vision swims, then sharpens and focuses as he blinks. It is indeed a pile of blankets he’s lying in, ones stained black, and Ardyn’s stomach lurches. He twists, surveys his surroundings─their campsite on the shore, the fire a pile of smoldering embers. He looks the other way, towards the water, and the rowboat is still there, the galley further off in deeper waters._

_Someone is still here, but where, Ardyn does not know._

_He struggles to move. One arm is twisted horribly, bent at an awful, unnatural angle, but the other seems stable enough, and Ardyn carefully grasps the blankets covering him. Steeling himself, he pulls them back, revealing his mangled legs, his torso with his crushed ribs, a few still sticking through his skin._

_He shouldn’t be alive._

_But here he is, bound to this existence because death has turned him away._

_Ardyn chuckles darkly to himself, loud, sharp peals of laughter that turn to sobs. Eventually, he falls silent, laying there, listening to the hiss and crackle of the dying fire, numb, trying to blot out the voices whispering in his head._

_He’s not sure how long he lays there, alone, until he hears footsteps. Heavy gait, even steps─Ardyn would recognize them anywhere, even accompanied by several lighter sets. He doesn’t look over as Gilgamesh approaches, not even when the man kneels beside him._

_“Is my brother gone?”_

_“Yes.” Gilgamesh pauses, searching for words. “Gentiana tells us you are cursed. He has seen it for himself, seen how even death rejects you.”_

_Ardyn grimaces, still staring straight ahead, and he can feel the black bile beading up at the corner of his mouth. “I’m not cursed,” he insists, his tone somewhere between furious and frightened._

_Gilgamesh says nothing. Ardyn looks to his face, tries to read his expression, and comes away empty handed._

_“Please don’t leave me,” he says as Gilgamesh stands, gesturing to the men he’s with. In his periphery, Ardyn can see them head down to the rowboat._

_He reaches for Gilgamesh as he turns away, but it’s too little, too late. “Don’t leave me!” he shouts after him, twisting, flipping himself onto his stomach, the pain in his torso and legs so sharp and overbearing he nearly loses consciousness._

_Gilgamesh pays him no mind, continuing on to the boat._

_Ardyn watches them board and shove off without ceremony. Gilgamesh is last to climb in as the boat sets out for the galley, growing smaller and smaller in Ardyn’s sights as it drifts further out. He manages to push himself up with one arm, sitting there, watching helplessly as he is left behind._

_Ardyn can never forgive this transgression._

_As the galley disappears from his sights, he surrenders himself to the voices._

\---

Ardyn wondered just how much of _him_ was still left after all these years.

He’d spent so many of them with the daemons in his skin that it was sometimes hard to tell where he ended and they began, to discern their instincts from his behaviors, to differentiate his own desires from theirs. At first, it had frightened him, the thought of losing himself over to them, but now...

They had been a part of him for so long that Ardyn wasn’t sure who he was _without_ them.

He lay in the darkness, postulating, the voices twisting his thoughts, trying to bend him to their will as they always did. They wanted so badly for him to get up, to end Gladio where he lay in that bed beside Ardyn, to pull him apart piece by piece and relish in his destruction, saving his head as a trophy to give to the precious Chosen King.

Ardyn ignored them. Their plans were far too messy for his liking.

Pushing the heavy thoughts from his mind, Ardyn instead dozed for a bit, until they were well within the witching hour. Eventually, he quietly roused himself, pushing the blankets back and climbing off the bed. Gladio didn’t stir as Ardyn retrieved his things, pulling his boots on and doing the buckles before reaching for his coat. He didn’t bother to pull it over his shoulders, instead just draping it over his arm.

Ardyn sensed that Gladio wasn’t asleep; although his breathing was slow and even, Ardyn could see the tension in his neck and shoulder, undoubtedly at the ready. He had to be aware of what Ardyn was doing, but didn’t so much as even crack an eye open to watch him.

Things in hand, Ardyn paused at the door, casting one last glance back at the outline of Gladio’s body in the dim room. Should he be offended that Gladio wasn’t going to try and stop him, or even ask him where he was going?

No. They didn’t have any kind of connection. Gladio didn’t understand what all of this was about─there was no way that he could.

Or perhaps he had, perhaps he’d pieced it together, and elected not to meddle in these affairs.

Ardyn twisted the handle, pulling open the door and stepping out into the night air. It was crisp and cold, his passengers singing, euphoric to be out and about in the darkness. Ardyn ignored their joyus cries, striding across the gravel lot to his car. Dawn was still several hours away, and he could smell the ozone in the air, everything vaguely humid and dewey.

Without ceremony he opened the driver’s side door, throwing his coat onto the passenger side before sliding into the driver’s seat. It was routine from there, keys in the ignition, start, headlights, throw it in reverse, back out, put it in first.

The roads were totally deserted at this time of night, the landscape hauntingly barren, a sea of blackness populated only by the occasional light on the horizon. Ardyn flew down the frontage road, one hand on the bottom of the wheel, the other draped over the head of the gearshift.

He stopped at the intersection where the frontage road met the highway, looking north down the road. That was where he should go, back up to Steyliff, to rejoin the company up there.

Chewing the inside of his mouth, he looked to the other side, to the stretch of road heading south, the same one they’d travelled up to get here, the one that lead straight back to the Crag.

Inhaling sharply, Ardyn decided, shifting out of neutral and into first as he turned left and started southwards.

They could wait for him in Steyliff.

\---

Taelpar Crag smelled of death.

It was a smell that Ardyn was all too familiar with, from all points in his life. In his early days, it had been those who passed away in the valetudinarium; now, he remembered the piles of bodies at Besithia’s production facility, his failed attempts at creating Imperial troopers.

This was an older, darker smell, not the sharp, sour smell of the recently deceased, but a musty, earthy smell of the long dead. Death had permeated this area, had crept into the stone floor and into the cavern walls, had lingered here for centuries, just like the spirit wandering the bottom.

Ardyn didn’t fear death. If anything, death feared him, feared what he had become.

At first, Ardyn’s down into the Crag was uninterrupted and uneventful, marked only by the occasional cluster of remains discarded, rusted weapons. Eventually, Gilgamesh’s undead came for him, but Ardyn paid them little mind, pushing them back towards the walls or pulling their bones apart, leaving them in little piles along the path. None of the other daemons dared to cross him, although most of the creatures weren’t so wise.

_Oh well. Survival of the fittest and all._

He crossed through the first trial, leaving more destruction in his wake, pushing on ahead through the maze of caves as they wound around the side of the gorge, leading further and further down. Several times Ardyn peered over the edge, wondering if he ought to just speed the process up with a slight jump and let his body sort it out, but he had no desire to try and find his way out of the gorge in case he missed a landing, so he opted for the long way.

What had Gladio thought as he had trekked down here, Ardyn wondered. Had he been filled with awe, or had it all bored him, like it did Ardyn? What stories had Cor told him of this place; what expectations had he been given?

The second trial was just as easy, along with the third, and then Ardyn started down the long path to the bridge spanning the gorge. He could sense Gilgamesh, could feel that old magic in the air, similar to his own, a relic of times long past.

He stopped just before the bridge, taking a long, hard look across it. Mostly barren, decorated by the same strands of runes that marked the rest of the ruins. And at the other end of it was Gilgamesh, seated upon a wide boulder, rule of the kingdom of bones he had built down here.

Clad in his armor, with the morning rays of light striking him, he looked rather stunning. His armor was still ornate, but now bore numerous scratches and gouges, no doubt tokens he’d gained fighting so many challengers over the years. The same mask covered his face (did he even have a face, like this?), the features rigid, stern, unmoving, just as Ardyn remembered them. Gilgamesh was imposing as he always had been in life, but now there was an ethereal quality to him, turning him from just a man into and otherworldly force, making him somehow greater in death.

They both were, really.

Ardyn crossed out onto the bridge, stopping just shy of halfway. Gilgamesh finally rose from his post, approaching him, and Ardyn could see the emptiness where his left arm should have been, his cloak fluttering slightly as he moved.

For a long, long moment they just stood there, staring at each other, Ardyn wishing he could pluck away that mask and look him in the eyes once more, if only to satisfy his curiosity.

Wasn’t that what this all had been? A quest for satisfaction?

The final chapter to a story he’d wondered about the ending to?

“You don’t need to linger here any longer,” Ardyn said, clasping his wrists behind his back. “Your purpose has been... served.”

“As long as there are Shields to the King and warriors seeking challenge, I have purpose and cause,” Gilgamesh replied, his voice not quite as Ardyn remembered it, deeper, harsher.

“There will be no more Shields,” Ardyn continued, “because there will be no more Kings.”

And then, with a gentle flick of his wrist, as though he were swatting a fly, Ardyn relieved Gilgamesh of his existence.

His cloak turned to ash, the armor falling away as his bones turned to dust, all of it landing in a heap, crowned perfectly by the mask, landing face up. Ardyn let it lay there and settle for a minute, before he carefully sauntered over, plucking the mask from among the other plate. He carried it over to the boulder Gilgamesh had sat upon, climbing up on it himself, and simply sat, holding the mask in one hand.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, but the sun crawled across the sky, the shadows shifting on the bridge, and everything was cast in an orange glow by the time Ardyn stood up from the boulder. He walked to the edge, peering down into the dark abyss below him, pondering just how deep this scar in the earth really did run.

He supposed he should feel something. Sadness, maybe. Regret. Anger.

Gilgamesh had never really been his, though, so what was there to feel?

With a soft sigh, Ardyn let the mask tumble from his hands and down into the blackness below.

He had business waiting for him back above.  



End file.
